


fitting

by ienablu



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Clothing Kink, Frottage, M/M, Mild Praise Kink, Possessive Behavior, Uniform Kink, lowkey body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 21:10:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu
Summary: The tailor draws himself up. “I must apologize, but I made a clerical error last week, which resulted in me including Mr. Argentum’s measurements among those of the Kingsglaive for whom I was remaking garments.”





	fitting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marmolita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmolita/gifts).



> ~~this was supposed to be a surprise, damnit~~ happy belated birthday, boo.
> 
> Also, not what I had planned to be my first FFXV fic, or my first post-hiatus fic, but I have a Weakness for the Kingsglaive uniform.
> 
> originally posted [here](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4113.html?thread=6797329#cmt6797329), main uniform reference [here](http://www.buffed.de/screenshots/original/2017/01/Final-Fantasy-15-Prompto-Kleidung-buffed.jpg).

A messy battle with the Glaives leaves the Citadel's tailor running behind on Prompto's measuring-and-fitting appointment.

Noctis only has his schedule cleared for so long, to be Prompto's emotional support through the appointment, but Prompto seems relieved with the delay. Prompto's weird about his body, and his self-image, and Noct is pretty certain the best thing he can do for Prompto is not to say anything, showing his support in action instead. So he's tucked away on a small sofa in the waiting room with his best friend, both of them half-invested in their round of King's Knight.

Prompto watches the flow of Kingsglaive out of the room, fiddling with the bottom of his sweatshirt.

The tailor appears in the doorway. "If you would allow me to reset my fitting room, I will be with you in just a moment."

Prompto's hands tighten on his sweatshirt, and so Noct answers, in his polished diplomatic-demure voice, "Take your time."

"So, uh," Prompto says, once the tailor has stepped back out. "What's the difference between the Crownsguard and the Kingsglaive again?"

"The Crownsguard is the royal guard," Noct says, not looking up from his phone. "My dad has one and I have one, though the only difference is which armiger you access."

"Yours," Prompto says.

"Mine," Noctis repeats, ignoring the curl of something pleased in his chest at the word. His voice sounds unsteady as he continues, "The Glaive access the king's armiger, and access to the Crystal’s magic through the king.”

"So I'm part of your Crownsguard."

Noct nods.

"And maybe one day part of your Glaive?"

One day Noctis will have a Glaive.

His father's health is declining – has been declining for as long as he can remember – and that _one day_ is approaching.

Noctis doesn't want to think about it.

Doesn't want to think that it may be easier with Prompto at his side.

The tailor arrives once more, and Noct gives his terrified friend a weak smile.

 

*

 

Not ten minutes have passed – Noct scrolling through Ignis's daily state-of-affairs emails – when he hears a door open. He frowns as he looks up.

Prompto's shoulders are hunched over, his gray sweatshirt seeming even baggier on him. He lifts his head and nods to the door. His face is red and blotchy. 

Noct falls into step with him in the hallway.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Prompto lets out a watery laugh. "Nah, I'm fine, it's cool. He showed me a few sketches, and we got through the measuring. We just–" he cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "We rescheduled the fitting for next week. It's cool. We're good."

Noct eyes the tense line of Prompto's shoulders, and doesn't say anything further.

 

*

 

Noctis looks at his calendar – carefully color-coded under Ignis's guidance – and reschedules for the fitting.

At no point during the following week does he think about the fact that the fitting is for Prompto to become one of his Crownsguard.

At no point during the too-long nights does he think of Prompto becoming _his_.

 

*

 

Ten minutes into the fitting, there's the sound of footsteps approaching.

Noctis stands up as the tailor enters the waiting room.

"Prince Noctis, if I may have a word?"

"Is Prompto alright?"

"Mr. Argentum is more reluctant than most to be involved with a fitting, but he is doing well. He does request your presence for the remainder of the appointment. Should there be a remainder." The tailor draws himself up. "I must apologize, but I made a clerical error last week, which resulted in me including Mr. Argentum's measurements among those of the Kingsglaive I was remaking garments for."

Noctis stares at him, expression schooled into something polite and serene. Never show surprise, he remembers Ignis telling him. “You made Mr. Argentum a Kingsglaive uniform instead of his Crownsguard uniform.”

The tailor nods. “My apologies, Prince Noctis. I have sent word to my assistants to start on the Crownsguard uniform we designed, but it will be at least a day before we can have that ready to fit. I do, however, have the jacket ready, should you deem it necessary.”

His father’s health is declining. He thinks of the lessons Ignis has taught him. He says, “There is no harm in being prepared.”

Another nod. “I will go fetch the jacket.”

Noctis walks to the fitting room, thinking of Gladio’s exercises to clear his mind of the dull fog of fear and the sudden racing thoughts. Walking into the fitting room, Noct finds the exercises to be completely unnecessary, all thoughts cleared away and replaced by an _oh_.

The room is well-lit; Prompto stands on the small platform before a three-way mirror.

The pants of the Kingsglaive uniform are a dark charcoal, the fabric heavy and with a light sheen. One leg has the bottom hem neatly pinned in place, while the other has the extra fabric rucked up around his ankle.

The tailor is fetching the jacket, Noctis remembers distantly, which is why Prompto is wearing just the shirt. It’s a sleeveless shirt. His arms are crossed, and he seems to be hugging himself.

In the span of two seconds, Noctis find himself standing just behind Prompto. The platform Prompto is on makes him just a bit taller, but Noct can look over his shoulder, Noct can get a view of Prompto’s front. His gaze drags down, from the hint of collarbone peeking over his neckline, the silver decorations fit tight across his toned chest and abs, to the way the pants cling to his hips, cling to his– 

"I've never seen you in anything sleeveless," Noct says, drawing his gaze back up. He can’t help but trace the lines and muscles of Prompto’s arms, pale against the gray of the Kingsglaive shirt. Sleeveless shirt.

"Oh. Yeah. Y'know.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Just never wanted to make anyone suffer from having to look at me without–”

"You look good."

Prompto bites his lip, face flushing a bright red.

Noct finds he can't hold his gaze, and it dips down, down to the pale expanse of his shoulder. It is not a better option. His mouth goes dry, his voice rough as he says, "Your shoulders are freckled."

He inhales sharply, and Noct watches the shiver run down his spine.

The air is thick and heavy between them, and Noctis doesn’t know where to avert his gaze to, doesn’t know if he can draw his gaze away.

A perfunctory knock on the door, and the tailor slips back into the room.

Noctis steps back to respectable distance. He stands and watches impassively as the tailor helps Prompto into the Kingsglaive jacket.

It’s a perfect fit. The lines of the shoulder make him seem broader, as do the buttons all way down his torso. Sharp, straight seams make him seem sturdy, even though he’s nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, the jacket swaying gently with the movement.

“I believe that I will not need to make any alterations.”

“It’s perfect,” Noctis says, words perfectly measured, gaze hot as it rakes down Prompto’s chest, up his arms. Him wearing long sleeves is suddenly appealing, now that Noct knows what those layers of fabric are hiding. And it draws attentions to his hands, pale against the dark threading and darker fabric; it draws attention to his face, the collar curving under his jaw.

“Excellent,” the tailor demures. “I must attend to a meeting with the cordwainer, but if you leave the uniform, I will be glad to hem the pants so that I may complete it.”

“And add sleeves to the shirt?” Prompto asks, voice too bright.

“Not necessary,” Noct says.

Prompto goes stiff, eyes seeking out Noct’s in the mirror.

“I will inform my assistant that we should have an alternate made. We will keep you updated in the process.” And with that, the tailor leaves with a polite bow.

Prompto steps down from the platform as Noct steps in closer. It ends with them in a similar position from earlier – Prompto’s arm centered along Noct’s chest, but this time Noct is angled more towards Prompto.

This time they’re level, close enough where Noct could– 

Silence stretches between them. Prompto doesn’t say anything, while Noct doesn’t think he can speak.

Finally, Prompto clears his throat. “Uh, Noct? I kinda need to change back out of these.”

“Not yet.”

Prompto goes very still.

In stepping down, Prompto shifted the fabric. Noct reaches up, fingers sliding along the curve of his ribcage, before they reach the placket. They curl around the fabric, and Noct tugs, the jacket falling perfectly into place. Noct lays his hand against the flat of Prompto’s stomach. “You look good,” Noct repeats. 

Prompto shifts his weight. The sway of the jacket – his jacket – catches Noct’s eye, as does the bulge in his pants.

It makes Noct’s fingers dig into the wool of the jacket.

Prompto cheeks flush a bright red. “Uh, I need to get started on changing out of these, and I’m sure you’ve got a meeting or something princely–”

Noct shifts in closer, his free arm wrapping around Prompto’s waist, pulling him back flush against Noct’s chest. Pulling him to show his own interest.

“N–” Prompto starts, breath hitching. “Noct–”

Something loosens in Noct’s chest, the brief fear that it may have been a no instead of his name easing away – in its place, there’s a fissure of pleasure at Prompto sighing his name. “You look so good, Prom.” It gets a whimper, and then another, once Noct lowers his hand to brush against the fabric of his pants.

Prompto shivers again, and this time Noct feels it. Noct keeps his gaze locked as he reaches between Prompto’s legs, as he rubs him through his pants. Prompto moans. He tears his gaze away. “I’m gonna, these pants aren’t even finished and I’m gonna make a mess of them, I’m gonna get in so much trouble for this–”

“No, you won’t,” he says. His nose nuzzles against the corner of his jaw, soon replaced by a nip of teeth. “I won’t let you.” 

“I’m gonna, Noct, I’m–”

Noct undoes the button and zip of the pants, and shoves them down mid-thigh. Then his hand returns to cup Prompto through the thin cotton of his boxers. The line of his erection is more prominent, and he curls his hand around it, stroking him through the thin, thin fabric.

Prompto thrusts into Noct’s hand, a keening noise making its way out from his grit teeth. “Gods, _Noct_.”

But Noct keeps his hand steady, his gaze steadier as he stares at Prompto in the reflection of the mirror. Prompto’s gaze keeps flitting around – his own face, Noct’s face, Noct’s hand splayed over the coat, Noct’s hand between his legs. Noct squeezes him harder, and then has to tighten his hold around Prompto’s middle, as Prompto melts back into him. He’s close, biting his lip to muffle his breathy moans, and Noct flicks his wrist.

“Noct–” 

Prompto’s hips jerk against him, and Noctis palms him through his building orgasm. “Look at you,” he murmurs, getting a quiet whimper. His kisses the corner of his jaw. “You’re so good, Prom.”

Another quiet whine, and one more thrust, before the front of his boxers go damp and he goes limp.

Noct stares at them in the mirror – the way Prompto looks wrapped in his arms, the way Prompto looks so wholly _his_.

Prompto lets out a cough. “Should I…” He makes a crude hand gesture, and then leans back, grinding back against Noctis.

“You should probably get changed,” Noct says, gaze dipping back down to the wet spot on Prompto’s boxers. “I have a meeting to get to.” Which he should go to. It requires him to let go of Prompto, to step back, but he doesn’t want to do either of those things, so he lingers for another moment. He licks up the shell of Prompto’s ear. “I’ll text you after?”

Another full-body shiver from Prompto. “Please do.” He blinks, and flushes bright red. “I mean–”

Noct lets out a low laugh, presses a kiss to Prompto’s neck, to the sliver of skin visible above the jacket collar. “I’ll text you after.”


End file.
